


The Apotheosis of Winchester

by BookwormBaby2580



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23748775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookwormBaby2580/pseuds/BookwormBaby2580
Summary: Sam and Dean don't break the world, for once.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 1





	1. The Truth Shall Make You Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NixDucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixDucky/gifts).



> Happy birthday to the best Duck the world has ever known.

[ ](https://gifyu.com/image/lg0B)

Sam stared at the entry in the book, feeling dumber than he had ever felt in his life. How had he not thought of it? He and Dean had grappled with a handful of gods who had been weakened when they’d gone obsolete.

It all came down to prayer. Every god needed it. The more prayers they could collect, the stronger they were. The Judeo-Christian god had had a strong hold on the world for a long time, and the sheer abundance of prayer had made him powerful.

But now Sam was staring at a spell that would deflect prayers. They could cut Chuck off from his source of power. Without the boost that prayer gave him, he was just a run-of-the-mill monster. A little silver, a little ritual, and he would go down just like anything else.

Sam scanned the list of spell ingredients. It couldn’t possibly be this basic, could it?


	2. By Man Came Death

[ ](https://gifyu.com/image/lg0r)

Pain exploded in Sam’s head as he collided with the wall—and then in his knee as he fell to the floor. He heard a pop and groaned. It definitely wasn’t supposed to bend that way.

He struggled to see through the red haze of pain as Chuck turned his attention to Dean. Sam got dizzy for a second, and when his vision cleared, Chuck was holding Dean against the wall by the throat. Dean, though, was not the type to panic, even when his oxygen had been cut off. Sam could see his foot prodding at the ground, searching for the knife. In seconds he had found it, and he gave it a good kick, almost exactly in Sam’s direction. Sam had to lunge for it, and pain shot through is knee and his head again. He fought back a wave of nausea and hauled himself to his one good foot. With the help of a broken table leg and a lifetime of practiced stealth, he managed to get behind Chuck and plunge the knife into his back.

A blinding light surged out from the point of contact and, once again, propelled Sam back against the wall. His knee torqued again and pain shot through his kidneys. Once again, he struggled to hold back the bile that tried to rise. The light subsided almost as quickly as it came, and when Sam looked back, he could see Chuck lying on the floor. He looked broken and . . . small. The way he’d looked to Sam years ago, before they had known how he had been manipulating them. As Sam watched, a small, iridescent beetle crawled out of the wound in Chuck’s back and flitted weakly around his still form.

The beetle looked as though it was barely there, like it was formed of vapor and would dissipate in a puff of wind. Sam wasn’t sure how he knew that the beetle had to be contained, but he did. If they lost it, all of this would be for nothing. Sam forced himself to his feet again, growling through the pain, and staggered forward. Dean was doing the same, intent on the little insect. They both snatched at it, missing it a few times, and then it flitted high in the air and they both reached for it . . .

Sam was taller. That’s all it was. There was no plan, no destiny, no inescapable fate. It was just that Sam was  _ very _ tall. He was able to reach higher than Dean, and his cupped hands closed around the beetle.

A wave of searing heat began at his hands and washed over his body. Good heat, though.  _ Fantastic _ heat. It should have thrown him off-balance, especially with his injured knee, but it didn’t. It made him feel  _ more _ stable. It made him feel  _ strong. _ And in a moment of wonder, he realized that all of his pain had disappeared. Not just the knee and the head and the kidneys. The scrapes on his hands from digging up the yarrow root, the nick in his finger where he’d fed blood into the potion, the twinge in his shoulder that had been bothering him for more than a year now, the canker sore on his tongue . . .

Everything. Literally everything that had been wrong was no longer wrong. He felt better than he had since . . .

Well. He tried not to think about  _ those _ days.

But somehow, it was even better than that. The power from the demon blood had been heavy and thick, but this . . . it was like everything in him was lifting. He felt . . .  _ fucking _ good. He peeked inside his cupped hands and was somehow unsurprised to see them empty.

He glanced at Dean, who was rubbing his sore throat as he warily eyed Sam. Sam didn’t want him to be sore.

Dean blinked and his hand stopped. He cleared his throat and gave an experimental, “Hm.” Then he frowned. “What the hell just happened?”

“We . . . we did it. We killed—”

Before Sam could finish, a shriek filled the room.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

He knew that voice.

A door burst open behind him, but before he could even turn around, Dean was in motion. He snatched the silver knife off of the floor and flew to the doorway, burying it to the hilt in Amara’s stomach.

She screamed, but only for a moment. It was cut off by the rise of something black and viscous flooding from her throat. Sam watched as Dean slapped his hand down on the knife’s hilt, though he didn’t understand why.

Amara collapsed and Dean sat down hard.

“Whoa,” he said, shaking his head. “Whoa.”

“Dean?”

Dean looked back over his shoulder at Sam, a smile tugging at one corner of his lip. “My headache’s gone.”

“Mine too.” That wasn’t exactly what he meant, but what he did mean seemed beyond the reach of words. 

Dean let out a laugh. “We did it.”

Sam looked at the two bodies lying on the floor. He thought they looked even smaller than they had before. Or . . . flatter? Chuck looked like he was sinking into the Persian rug. And Amara was absorbing into the hardwood floors?

Sam glanced around the beautifully-appointed mansion where they had caught up with Chuck. A picture was askew on the wall near him, and he absently reached up and straightened it. He looked back down, and yes. Chuck and Amara were sinking, or dissolving, or . . . something. God and his sister were disappearing from existence.

He looked at Dean, who was pulling at a loose thread on the hem of his T-shirt.

“So . . . now what?”

Dean shrugged. “Now we stand here and wait to find out how much worse we just made everything.”

Sam snorted. Story of their lives. “Let’s do it . . . somewhere else, though.” He gestured to what was left of Chuck and Amara. “This is freaking me out.”

“You go ahead,” Dean said. He was staring at them in fascination. “I just . . . want to see it done. It’ll make me feel better.”

“Suit yourself.” Sam headed out the front door and down the marble porch steps. There was a sagging rhododendron next to one of the heavy handrails, and he leaned over and fluffed it, propping some of the weaker limbs so the heavy blossoms wouldn’t drag them down. He strolled slowly down the walk, admiring the new spring growth as he went. He felt like . . . making something. He wanted to try his hand at painting or writing or cooking. Cooking sounded nice—or baking! How much would Dean love it if he made a pie? His head was full of little things he wanted to try. If he zested some lime into a sweet cherry filling . . .

He continued to make plans until Dean came out of the house, plucking a dead leaf off of the rhododendron as he passed. He shredded it to bits it as he strolled toward Sam.

“All gone,” he said with a wide, satisfied smile.

“The world hasn’t ended yet,” Sam said. It actually felt better than ever. There was so much  _ possibility. _

“That can’t last,” Dean said dryly. But his eyes were bright and he had a spring in his step.


	3. The Bread of Life

[ ](https://gifyu.com/image/lg01)

Dean was so excited about the pie that he lingered in the kitchen, hovering nearby as Sam worked over his ingredients. It was actually kind of useful to have him there. After S am was done with the flour, Dean put it away. When Sam pitted the cherries, Dean disposed of the pits. As Sam cut the crust scraps from the edge of the pie plate, Dean collected and discarded them. By the time the pie went in the oven, the kitchen was almost as clean as it had been when they’d started. Dean was cheerfully tying up the garbage to take it out—a task he usually either avoided or whined about like a child—when they heard Castiel’s tentative voice from the main entrance.

“Dean? Sam?”

“In here!” Sam called from the kitchen.

“Great timing!” Dean added. “Sam just put a pie in the oven.”

Castiel appeared in the doorway. He did a double-take when he saw Sam, and for a moment he stared, transfixed.

Sam quirked an eyebrow. “Can I help you with something?”

“No, I—are you—can I help  _ you? _ With anything?”

“You can run this out.” Dean thrust the trash bag toward him, and Cas flinched at the sudden movement.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“I . . . don’t know.” He took the garbage from Dean, but just held it, gazing back and forth between the two of them. “Something feels . . . different.”

“Different how?” Dean asked. “Is there something hanging around that needs to be ganked?”

“Are you sick?” Sam asked. “I could make some soup or something.”

Cas cocked his head curiously. “Soup? You?”

Sam rolled his eyes, a little miffed over his confusion. “I  _ can _ cook, you know. I took care of myself for years in college.”

“Yes,” Cas said, still looking puzzled, “but you don’t. Cook.”

“C’mon, Cas. You think I wouldn’t even make you some soup if you weren’t feeling well?  _ Are _ you feeling well? Maybe we should take your temperature, or . . . do angels get fevers?”

“No.” Cas glanced at Dean, who was now trimming his nails with his pocket knife. “Did something happen?”

“You mean, before the pie?” Dean smirked. “Hell yeah, something happened. We killed Chuck.”

Cas frowned, giving a little shake of his head. “You killed him?”

“And Amara.”

“Are you sure?”

“I was a minute ago,” Sam said. “Why?”

“I still feel his presence,” Cas said. “It’s . . . peaceful. As it hasn’t been for a very long time.”

“Dammit,” Dean hissed. “I knew it couldn’t be that easy. Prayer deflection and a magic knife. What were we thinking?”

Sam bristled at the implied criticism. It has been  _ his _ research, after all, that they had used. “We’d better go back. See what we can figure out.”

Dean started for his jacket, but then stopped. “The pie,” he said, looking longingly at the oven.

And, well. Sam wasn’t just going to let his beautiful sour cherry pie get ruined. “We’ll go in an hour,” he said.

Dean nodded. “An hour. That won’t hurt anything.” He took the trash bag back from Cas. “If you’re just going to stand there, I’ll take this out.”


	4. The Shadow of Death

[ ](https://gifyu.com/image/lg0D)

With the pie cooling on the baker’s rack, Dean, Sam, and Cas made their way back to the mansion where they had left the deteriorating bodies of Chuck and Amara. There was no sign of either of them, but the house wasn’t unoccupied. They got an eyeful of the cloud of curly black hair before the figure slowly turned to face them.

“Billie,” Sam blurted out.

“Winchesters.” She smiled as she looked back and forth between them. “You made a lot of work for me today.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “They’re really dead?”

“Oh, yes. You did a thorough job.”

“So . . .” Sam glanced at Cas. “No more God?”

Billie chuckled low in her throat.

“What happens now?” Dean asked. “Do the angels, like, hold an election?”

“Heaven is not a democracy,” Cas said, looking put out.

“Celebrity Deathmatch?”

Billie strode toward them, all smug superiority. She placed a hand on Sam’s chest and patted Dean’s cheek. “At the end,” she said, her voice low and rich, “I’ll reap you, too.” She nudged them apart and strode between them toward the front door. She was gone from their sight long before she reached it.

Sam looked at Dean, but he was staring after her, an expression of dawning horror on his face.

“What? Sam asked.

Dean swallowed hard. “Let’s go home.”

“Dean, what is it?”

“Just—get in the car.”

Sam and Cas followed Dean to the Impala. Once they were on the road, Sam fixed Dean with a steady look. He wasn’t going to let this go until Dean surrendered his information. Fortunately, Dean had apparently decided not to put up a fight.

“Remember a while back when I had pizza with Death?”


	5. Be Ye Transformed

[ ](https://gifyu.com/image/lg05)

“It’s a coincidence,” Sam said. “Or, like . . . a company motto. Quit picking at that thread. You’re going to ruin your shirt.”

Dean rolled the dangling thread into a ball. At least three inches of his hem had come unraveled.

“You saw her face, though. She was goading us. She meant for me to make that connection.”

“Just because she meant for you to draw that conclusion, that doesn’t mean it’s a correct one. She kind of hates us, remember? She’ll seize any opportunity to mess with our heads.”

“Yeah, well, it’s working.” Dean slowed as he approached the bunker. “What the hell?”

A huge crowd of people had gathered all around the bunker. Sam guessed there had to be at least five hundred of them. Even eerier, though, was that they didn’t seem to be talking to each other. They were all standing still, staring straight ahead at the dingy building, saying nothing. As they heard the car approaching, though, they all turned and watched it.

Dean slowed the car, but Sam wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. He didn’t want all these people swarming them as they sat inside the Impala. He was getting ready to tell Dean to get the hell out of there when Cas spoke up from the back seat.

“Angels.”

“Fuck,” Dean muttered.

“Angels?” Sam asked. “Why didn’t you tell us they were all coming here?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Sam turned to look at him.

“I was distracted.”

He  _ had _ been quieter than normal. “By what?”

“You.”

Sam glanced at Dean and back at Cas again. “What? Why?”

“You’re . . . glorious.

There was a silent beat and then Dean started snickering. “It’s the hair.”

“It is partly the hair,” Cas affirmed, completely serious.

Dean howled with laughter.

Sam cocked his head, giving Cas a perplexed look. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You have a new aura?” Cas said, though he didn’t sound sure that he meant it. He continued searching for words. “You feel . . . like the object of a quest.”

That set Dean to laughing all over again, though he sobered quickly when the angels, as one, began walking toward them.

“You know what?” he said, clearing his throat and shifting into reverse. “Let’s do this somewhere else.”

“They don’t mean any harm,” Cas said.

Sam snorted. “Since when?”

“They want to worship you.”

Dean had started backing up, but now he stomped on the break. “Worship Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why?” Sam echoed.

“It’s a compulsion. We are made to serve and worship God.”

The word hung in the air for a silent moment.

“Since when do they think Sam is God?” Dean asked.

“Since you killed him, I suppose.”

Dean shifted into park, folding his arms over his chest. “We both killed Chuck. How come  _ he’s _ God now and I’m not?”

“I don’t know,” Cas said. “But you’re different as well. You seem to have become . . . more familiar.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “I’ve become more familiar to you? Since last night? Do you even remember what we did last night?”

Cas glanced away. “This is different.”

“How?”

“Dean,” Sam said, “would you  _ quit _ pulling on that thread? Just take your shirt off if it’s bothering you. I’ll fix it later.

Dean turned the full force of his skepticism on Sam. “You’re going to fix my shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“As in, sew it? With a needle and thread?”

“I’ve done it with your skin. I don’t know why you think I can’t do it with a shirt.”

“Uh-huh.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did you bake pie a lot when you were at Stanford?”

“Uh. No. There wasn’t a whole lot of time for things like that. It was mostly tuna sandwiches and Hot Pockets.”

“Have you ever made a pie before?”

Sam frowned and shook his head.

“Been watching cooking shows?”

“No.” But suddenly, he wanted to. Cooking shows sounded  _ amazing _ .

“I didn’t notice you following a recipe,” Dean said. “How’d you know how to make that pie?”

“I didn’t realize it was going to be such a big deal,” Sam said, getting defensive. “I won’t make it anymore if you don’t like it.”

“ _ No _ ,” Dean growled, suddenly hostile. “Don’t twist my words. If you know how to make pie, you’re going to  _ make pie _ . Got it? I just want to know how you learned to do it.”

Sam shrugged. “Is it really something you have to learn to do? I just did the obvious things.”

Cas and Dean looked at each other. “Is it obvious to you?” Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head.

Dean was pulling at his thread again, and Sam smacked his hand. “Would you give me that?” He grabbed the back of Dean’s shirt and started dragging it over his head.

“Sam! Stop that! We’re not doing this with  _ them  _ watching.”

Sam had all but forgotten the angels outside. They had come within a yard of the car, but they had stopped and were simply watching. He cleared his throat and settled back into his seat, releasing Dean’s shirt.

“You should address them,” Cas said.

“Address them.” Sam repeated.

“What the hell do we have to say to them?” Dean asked.

“They’ll want guidance.”

“I’ll give them some guidance,” Dean muttered. “I’ll tell them all to go jump off a bridge.”

“They’ll want guidance from  _ Sam _ ,” Cas amended.

“Oh, hell no,” Sam said. “I’m not getting out of this car until I know what’s going on.”

“You seem to have absorbed the essence of God when you killed him.”

Sam shot Dean a look, who was shooting one right back at Sam.

“The beetle?” Dean asked.

“Uhh . . .” Sam said, feeling cornered. Was that why he’d felt so compelled to grab that damn beetle? When he’d felt that shock rip through him, had he been absorbing Chuck’s essence?

“Right.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “If that happens when you grab a beetle . . . what do you suppose happens when you grab a scorpion?”

“What?” Sam asked.

“When I killed Amara . . . there may have been a scorpion.”

“You were the one who killed Amara?” Cas asked at the same time that Sam said, “You grabbed a scorpion?”

Dean shrugged.

“Great,” Sam said, annoyed. “Excellent sense of self-preservation. Who the hell grabs scorpions?”

“You’ve become the Darkness,” Cas said, his eyes wide with awe. “That’s what’s different.”

He turned to Cas. “I’m Darkness?”

“You’re hungry.”

“Of course I’m hungry. You smelled that pie, right?” He glared out the window. “They’re standing between me and my pie.”

“Do we actually believe this?” Sam asked Dean, because he was starting to believe it and he was going to feel like an idiot if he took it seriously and Dean didn’t. “That I’m Chuck and you’re Amara?”

“What?” Dean asked, turning a challenging gaze on Sam. “You don’t think I can pull off a plunging neckline?”

Sam stayed silent, forcing him to answer seriously.

“Fine.” He set his jaw. “I do believe it. You know why? Because we’ve been playing in the majors for a long time. Death said I was an amoeba, and you know what I thought? I thought, ‘Why are you sharing your pizza with an amoeba?’ We’ve rubbed shoulders with angels and gods and leviathans and  _ Death _ , who is apparently capable of  _ reaping God _ , so yeah. I don’t think this is too far-fetched for us. And you know what else?” He grabbed the thread at his hem and gave it a hard yank. “ _ I want my goddamn pie. _ ”

“Okay,” Sam said, but it wasn’t okay, because how was he supposed to actually accept that he was God? His ego could only grow so large. “I guess . . . let’s go deal with the angels.”


	6. A Mutitude of the Heavenly Host

[ ](https://gifyu.com/image/lg0t)

As soon as Sam got out of the car, all of the angels knelt in front of him, their faces turned to the ground.

Sam surveyed the crowd, wishing he had a megaphone. How many of them would even be able to hear him? “Uh . . . you really don’t have to do that.”

Dean smirked, getting out of the car behind him. “Whatsa matter, Sammy? You don’t mind it when I’m on my knees in front of you.”

Sam shot Dean a warning look and turned back to the angels.. “Seriously, you don’t have to kneel. Please get up.”

As one, they all rose, even those far beyond the sound of his voice.

“It’s like synchronized swimming,” Dean muttered. “Tell them to stop moving in unison. It’s creepy.”

“Is there something you want?” Sam asked instead. “Are you here for some reason?”

“They want you to give them instructions,” Cas said, appearing at his elbow.

“What kind of instructions?”

“Instruction on what to do. What to work toward. The world is yours now. What do you want to do with it?”

“Nothing,” Dean said emphatically.

Cas gave him a quizzical look.

“Wasn’t that the point all along?” Dean asked, looking at Sam instead of Cas. “Team Free Will? We’ve been fighting to get out from under this Divine Plan crap. We’d be hypocrites if we started giving orders now.”

“But what is our purpose?” a short redheaded angel asked. “What are we to do?”

“Build a hospital,” Sam said. “Inspire someone to donate to charity. Find a single mom and help her get a job that will be flexible with child care responsibilities. You know, act the way people think angels are supposed to act.”

“That’s what people think we do?” a tall, musclebound angel asked.

“You could do worse,” Sam said. “You  _ have _ done worse. You want a purpose? Make the world better.”

“We thought that’s what we were doing,” the redhead said. “But if you have a different vision, we would be happy to follow your instructions.”

“Vision,” Dean muttered. “They want a mission statement and I want a pie.”

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“What?” Dean had crouched down and started tearing weeds and old brush from the rocky ground. “This place is a mess. It could use a little landscaping.”

Sam shook his head and refocused on the angels in the front yard. He recognized that they needed some direction, but his sympathies were more Dean-centric. “Right,” he said. “Right. Well. We need to have a meeting about . . . goals and stuff. So we’re going to go talk about that and then we’ll come back with a . . . plan, or . . . at least, a general direction. After we’re done. And it could take a while. So if you guys want to . . . go get a drink or something?”

No one moved.

“Right. We’ll be back. Just . . . do whatever you want until then.” Then he remembered who he was talking to and added, “Except destructive stuff. Or manipulative stuff. You know what? Just try to influence the world as little as possible until we get back.”

“Good call,” Dean said, sliding into the Impala again. “Let’s put Baby in the garage. I don’t trust these douchebags.”

“Cas, you coming?” Sam asked when Castiel made no move to get back into the car.

“Do you want me to?”

“Obviously,” Sam said. “How are we going to have a meeting about angels and not include an angel?”

Cas smiled as he settled into the back seat.


	7. Congregation of the Mighty

[ ](https://gifyu.com/image/lg0o)

Dean was demolishing his second slice of pie while Sam swirled patterns in the cherry remains on his plate. Cas was staring at him intently, waiting for him to bring up the subject at hand, but Sam knew Dean wouldn’t give them his full attention until he’d eaten his fill. Sam had moved on to building delicately-balanced structures out of sugar packets when Dean finally groaned and leaned back in his chair.

“That was art, Sammy.”

He smiled, excessively pleased with himself.

“So,” Dean said, getting right to business. “Oh great and mighty Baby Brother . . . what’s your plan?”

Sam rolled his eyes. Of course, Dean wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to put him in his place. Sam might actually  _ be _ God, but Dean was still going to pull rank.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I’m God.”

Dean laughed, long and loud, and shook his head. “Son of a bitch.”

Sam turned to Cas. “What does that even mean?”

“It means that you’re a creator. You guide the future of this world and you can create other worlds if you choose.”

“Yeah, let’s  _ not _ do that,” Dean said.

Sam agreed. “One world is enough.”

“What about me?” Dean asked. “What’s my place in all this?”

“You unmake,” Cas said. “There was always meant to be balance: creator and destroyer. When Chuck banished Amara, the balance was lost and his creations went unchecked. I think that’s why there are so many dysfunctional worlds. There was no one to . . . prune them.

“So I’m supposed to keep Sam from going all interdimensional Dr. Frankenstein?”

“I believe so.”

Sam was settling the last sugar packet on his packet pyramid when a wadded up piece of paper crashed into his structure and scattered the pieces.

“Hey!” Sam barked.

Dean grinned. “Aw, come on, Sammy. What’s the point of even building those things if you’re not going to knock them down?”

Sam had plenty to say about craftsmanship and accomplishment, but Dean wouldn't have listened. “Okay,” he said, flicking a sugar packet at Dean’s head, “how about getting this world on track? What do we want to do?”

“Wipe out all the monsters,” Dean said.

“Whoa.” Sam stopped collecting packets for a new sugar tower. “Pump the brakes. You just want to kill them all?”

“Don’t you? What the hell have we been hunting for all this time if not to get rid of the things that go bump in the night?”

“What about Garth?” Sam said. “Kate?”

Dean grunted.

“And there are a bunch more out there who are leaving people alone and minding their own business. We only get called in when one of them steps out of line.”

“How do you know that?” Dean challenged.

Sam paused, frowning. “I just . . . do.”

“You’ll know anything you want to know,” Cas said. “By virtue of your position.”

“Really?” Sam couldn’t stop the wide grin that spread across his face. “Reeeally . . .”

Dean might have gone a little pale. “Sam.”

“Hmmm . . .”

“Sam, stop it.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “You wet the bed until you were  _ seven? _ ”

“I had trauma,” Dean snapped. “At least I didn’t bust a nut in my pants twelve seconds after I started making out with a girl for the first time.”

The bottom dropped out of Sam’s stomach. “What—how—you can do it too?”

“Apparently so.”

“Shit,” Sam said.

“Shit,” Dean echoed.

“Let’s agree not to do that.”

“That would be best.”

Sam stared hard at his new construction. “It wasn’t my fault—”

“I don’t want to know,” Dean said, holding up a hand.

Sam couldn’t help it. He started snickering. He was trying really hard not to let it turn into a giggle, but the only way to do that was to open up and laugh out loud. Pretty soon, Dean was joining him. They both had a good, long, wordless laugh before things settled down between them.

“We’re never going to be able to lie to each other again,” Dean said, shaking his head.

“How do people live like that?”

“I don’t even know.”

Castiel made a show of rolling his eyes. Sam noticed for the first time that he had only taken one bite of his pie.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s delicious,” Cas replied.

“Why aren’t you eating it?”

“I’m rationing,” he said, expressionless as always. “This promises to be a very long meeting.”

That set them laughing again.

“Okay, so,” Dean said when they settled again. “We’re not wiping out all the monsters. I guess we keep hunting, then.”

“Wait. Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Dean looked at him like it should be obvious. “As long as there are monsters that need ganking, I’m going to gank ‘em.” He stretched his back and flexed his shoulders. “Especially now that I’m feeling so good.”

Sam frowned. It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected that from Dean, but he had hoped that maybe, someday, there would be life after hunting. “Look, just for kicks, let’s say you couldn’t hunt. What would you want to do?”

Dean had dumped the contents of a sugar packet onto his plate, and now he slowly shredded the paper as he thought. “I think I’d want a Roadhouse.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Like Ellen’s?”

“Yeah. Someplace hunters could gather to compare notes or just drink and relax.”

“That’s appropriate,” Cas murmured.

Dean turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re the destroyer. You would naturally enjoy running an establishment where you poison people a little bit every night.”

“Beer doesn’t  _ poison _ people,” Dean protested, looking to Sam for backup.

Sam hunched his shoulders a little. Because, actually . . .

“It doesn’t poison them very much,” Dean said sulkily.

“What if it wasn’t just a bar?” Sam asked, catching the vision. “What if it had a library? We could make this whole Men of Letters collection available, and Bobby’s too. Plus, we could add in hunters’ journals, like Dad’s. Then we could digitize it all and make a searchable database . . .” His fingertips actually started itching.

“Okay, nerd,” Dean said. “You do whatever you’re going to do with the books, and I’ll keep the liquor stocked.”

Sam met his gaze, and he was stunned to see that Dean looked serious. “Can you imagine actually doing it?” he asked cautiously. “Retiring and running a bar?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “Not a hundred percent. I’d still want to go out sometimes, maybe for something really tough.”

“You think you could be happy with that?”

Dean stared at the little mound of sugar on his plate. “You know what? I’ll think about it over another slice of pie.”

Cas was right. It was a long meeting. But the more they talked about details, the more excited they both got. Before long, Sam had gotten it into his head that he was going to design the bar himself.

Dean snorted. “You’re an architect now?”

“He’s  _ The _ Architect,” Cas pointed out.

“That’s all well and good,” Dean said sarcastically, “but do you know how to draw a plan that includes things like plumbing and electricity?”

Sam grinned. “I do now.”

Dean shook his head. “This is awesome.”

“We will, of course, help you build it,” Cas said, making a gesture that indicated the angels outside.”

“That’s going to be some fine craftsmanship,” Dean said, and stuffed another bite of pie into his mouth.


	8. House of Mirth

[ ](https://gifyu.com/image/lgZS)

Sam arranged some soft pretzels around the bowl of beer cheese soup and then sprinkled a handful of pomegranate seeds over the top of the eggplant rollatinis. He moved both dishes to the service window and then swiped a bottle of blood from the warmer and added it to the line-up.

“Table seven’s up!” he called, and Kim appeared to collect the plates.

“Thanks, Your Holiness.”

Sam smirked. Kim was an arachne who Dean had hired to wait tables soon after he’d realized that he wasn’t going to be able to keep up with all of the work on his own. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, Kim would call Sam “honey” or “baby” or “sweetie,” but once in a while she would get sassy and remind him of the God thing.

As though he had forgotten. He hadn’t exactly been idle since he’d accepted his new position. In fact, right now he could hear a news report playing on the TV behind the bar, and the fact that the story was being reported at all was due to him and his team. It was about a Djinn who had been stalking a neighborhood in Vermont and the hunters who had been hired by the mayor to take care of it. From the sound of it, Misty and Annabeth had done a tidy job. 

That had been Dean’s idea. The whole no-lying thing had been a revelation to him, and he’d started to wonder why they’d been keeping monsters a secret for so long. Sam reminded him about the panic that could ensue, but Dean was skeptical. Weren’t people more freaked out—and more vulnerable—when they didn’t know what was going on? Didn’t it make sense to be open about some of the most common creatures and let people know where they could go for help?

It hadn’t been seamless. People were always going to be people and prejudice had been fierce in the beginning, especially among hunters. But progress was being made and Sam took every opportunity he could to foster good interspecies relationships.

As it turned out, the hunters were faster to come around than almost anybody else. Transparency had been good for them, and that had gone a long way toward making them willing to work with law-abiding creatures. Being open about the monsters meant they could be open about what they did—and that they could start charging fees. It meant something to them to be able to make an honest living off of their expertise, and while there was some discussion about whether charging for service left poorer people vulnerable to attack, they were starting to find that they could usually finagle government extermination contracts. After all, hostile monsters were usually a threat to whole communities, not just individuals. And insurance companies were starting to offer policies that covered individual nuisances like poltergeists and unwanted house ghosts.

Mitsuo, a human graduate student from Japan, brought up two more orders. Sam grabbed the tickets and read them off to Dominique and Braden, his line cooks. They were busily preparing orders of beef Burgundy, lobster tail, and bacon cheeseburgers when Sam heard a chorus of “Garth!” ring through the restaurant. He grinned and leaned out the window, waving to Garth as the man strolled in with his oldest daughter.

“Two steak tartares,” Sam called back. He knew what Garth wanted, and he had a hunch that Gertie would be partial to it as well.

“What’s she doing in here?” Dean demanded good-naturedly, pointing to Gertie. “Tiamat, you’re slipping over there. When I hired a dragon as a bouncer I thought she’d be a little more effective.”

Tiamat rolled her eyes and tossed her fiery red hair over her shoulder.

“She’s not slipping,” Garth said proudly. “Gertie is twenty-one today.”

A cheer rattled the rafters of the bar and Gertie smiled shyly at everyone.

“Get over here,” Dean said, stepping out from behind the bar and wrapping Gertie up in a bear hug. “What’s it going to be? Mai tai? Sex on the beach?” He grinned. “House special?”

Garth shoved Dean back behind the bar. “The house special is for experienced drinkers  _ only _ ,” he said, giving Gertie a stern look.

“Um . . . I’ve always wanted to try a tequila sunrise.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Sam watched in amusement as Dean put on a show for Gertie, flipping bottles and layering liquids, and then topping the whole thing off with an orange slice and a cherry. He passed it over to her and she took an experimental sip.

“That’s delicious!” she said, and took a longer drink.

“Just try not to forget that there’s tequila in there, huh?” Dean turned to Garth. “Is this purely social or have you got work for us today?”

“I got a couple,” Garth said, whipping out his phone. “Who’s up for an  ōkami in Arizona?”

“I’m going out that way,” a middle-aged woman said, looking up from her pistachio-crusted salmon.

“You can borrow a bamboo knife from the armory,” Dean said, mixing Garth’s usual half-strength cosmopolitan. “It hasn’t been blessed, though.”

“I’ll text you phone numbers for a couple of Shinto priests in the area,” Garth said, tapping at his phone. “How about a soul eater in Alabama?”

A heavy bearded man grunted and waved his hand. “We’ve got that one,” he said, indicating himself and the man sitting beside him.

Sam leaned out the service window so he could see them better. “Hit the research room before you go. We got some new info on soul eaters.”

He raised his beer in acknowledgment.

“Do those assignments work for you, Isolde?” Garth called to an unusually shadowy corner at the back of the bar.

The banshee sitting at the table blinked her glowing eyes complacently and fluttered at him.

That settled that. Isolde’s clearance wasn’t a guarantee by any stretch of the imagination, but she was pretty good about letting them know when a hunter was ill-matched for a job. Occasionally, when Garth gave an assignment, she would fill the bar with a mournful wail, drowning out the classic rock playing on the jukebox and bringing down the mood in the whole place. That was a pretty good indication that the hunter wasn’t going to make it out alive, and Garth would reassign the job to a more experienced team.

Business settled, Garth plopped onto a stool next to Gertie and sipped his cosmopolitan. Sam smiled to himself. He had to give Garth a lot of credit for bridging the gap between hunters and supernatural beings. He’d already been a favorite among the group when he’d turned, and his frequent presence at the bar had reminded people that there was more complexity involved than Us vs. Them. Besides, Garth was Dispatch now, and if they wanted paying gigs they had to be nice to the werewolf.

Dominique presented Sam with a perfect double bacon burger with sautéd onions and a heaping side of potato wedges. Sam frowned and nudged the potatoes to the side, adding a scoop of roasted vegetables to the plate before calling out the order. Mitsuo appeared to collect it.

“Hey, Sam, he didn’t order those.”

“They’re good for him,” Sam said.

Mitsuo disappeared with the plate, calling out, “Ennis! God says you have to eat your vegetables!”

Sam chuckled.

He was just putting the finishing touches on the orders of steak tartare when Tiamat walked a twenty-something man to the bar.

“He wants to talk to Sam,” she told Dean without preamble.

Dean snorted, and Sam ducked back inside the kitchen, keeping out of sight.

“Everybody wants to talk to Sam,” Dean said, and his tone made it clear that the request was unlikely to be granted.

Sam heard the man clear his throat nervously. “I’m, uh . . . a friend? I mean, my uncle was. I’m Bryan Elkins. Daniel Elkins was my uncle.”

“No kidding?” Dean’s tone warmed immediately. “That’s good for one on the house. What’ll you have?”

The man hesitated. “Whiskey soda?”

Sam listened to the clink of glasses and bottles.

“So,” Dean said, “what business do you have with Sam?” The stubbornness was creeping back into his voice as he prepared to deflect the latest supplicant.

“I heard he has a library,” he said, sounding a little less nervous. “I heard Sam—I mean, God? Jesus, um—shit. Sorry.

Dean was snickering. “Kid, relax. You can call him Sam. If you start getting all worshipful, we’re just going to make fun of you.”

Bryan let out a flustered laugh. “Okay. Well. I heard Sam was collecting books about . . . you know, weird stuff?”

“Weird stuff?” Garth drawled, and Sam grinned to himself. The poor guy was kinda asking for a hazing.

“No!” he said, sounding panicked. “I mean, like . . . you know . . .”

Garth let the silence hang for a moment before supplying, “Supernatural beings?”

“Yeah! That!”

Sam could hear Dean snickering at the kid’s discomfort. “Sure, he’s got some books,” Dean said. “Why? You looking to read up on how to gank something?”

Bryan sounded downright scared now. “No! No, I actually thought . . . maybe he might want to . . . um . . . buy my uncle’s library?” He said the last part quietly, as though he feared it would bring the wrath of God down upon him.

Sam, however, was far from wrathful. “You guys got this?” he asked his line cooks.

They nodded and he grabbed the plates in front of him and headed out to the bar.

“You said the magic words, my friend,” Dean said, grinning as he gathered up a couple of empty glasses. “Bryan, Sam. Sam, Bryan.”

Sam gave him a nod as he dropped the plates in front of Garth and Gertie. “Happy birthday, kiddo,” he said, giving Gertie’s shoulders a squeeze. “You’re going to have a lucky day tomorrow.”

“Really?” She gasped. “Thank you! Only—you couldn’t make it Saturday, could you? I have a date.”

Garth clapped his hands over his ears. “I do not hear my sweet little baby asking God to help her get lucky on her date,” he said mournfully.

Sam chuckled. “Saturday it is. But I’m only manipulating the circumstances, not the guy. That part’s up to you.”

She squealed and threw her arms around him.

Sam gave her a squeeze and then released her and turned toward Bryan, who was sitting on a stool nearby. Sam took a seat next to him. “Daniel’s library, huh? How many books are we talking?”

Bryan gaped at him, and Dean snickered. “Stop being so glorious, Sammy. You’re scaring the boy.”

Sam shook his head. “Listen, Bryan, relax. Dean will literally never stop mocking us until you get it together.”

“You want a tip?” Dean said. “Suck his balls. He’ll agree to pretty much anything after that.”

It was clearly going to be a chore to get information from Bryan, so Sam gathered it himself. “Wow,” he said. “That’s a pretty good library. I’d take it just for all the vampire history, but that section on Baku? That’s an added bonus. I’ll give you ten thousand.”

Bryan paled. He gulped down the rest of his whiskey soda and thunked the glass on the bar. Sam was worried he might pass out, but he just shook his head. “No deal.”

Sam cocked his head. “I’m not much for haggling,” he said. “You could probably get something for it if you sold it to a set designer in need of some picturesque old books. I could even point you in the right direction. But it’s not worth as much to anyone else as it is to me.”

“I want the Colt,” he blurted out.

Sam arched an eyebrow. The Colt was in pieces, though it was unlikely that Bryan knew that. “Why?”

“It was my uncle’s. His family should have had it when he died.”

“It was owned by a lot of people before your uncle, and a lot of people have claimed it since. How did you decide that he was the one rightful owner?”

“You—” he stopped and swallowed hard. “It was stolen from him. When he—” he stopped again.

“The history of the Colt is one of violence and theft.”

“I need it,” he said.

“What for?”

“For . . . a ghoul.”

Dean snorted. “You want to use the Colt on a ghoul? That’s like taking a bazooka to a knife fight.”

“We’ve got a bar full of hunters who would be happy to help you with your ghoul,” Sam told him.

“You shouldn’t have it!” Bryan snapped.

Sam leaned an elbow on the bar. “Why not?”

“Because you shouldn’t have unlimited power.”

“This is about checks and balances?” Sam asked with a grin.

Bryan colored, shifting awkwardly on his stool. “Yeah. You shouldn’t have the only thing in the world that can kill you.”

Dean started snickering and Sam had to fight not to join him. “Right. Well. It should make you feel better to know that I didn’t use the Colt to kill Chuck.”

Bryan eyed him suspiciously, not sure whether to believe him.

“I’m not going to lie, it slowed him down for a little while. But ultimately, the Colt had nothing to do with his death.”

“I want to know how you did it,” Bryan said, setting his jaw.

Dean threw back his head and let out a belly laugh.

“You want me to tell you how you can kill me?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m not going to make it quite that easy for you. But I’ll tell you this.” He pointed to the line of doors off one side of the bar that led to the specialty rooms. “You can find everything you need in the library, the armory, and the apothecary. Have at it.”

Bryan glanced at the doors and back at Sam. “You’ll just kill me.”

“Don’t think I’m going down without a fight,” Sam said. “But those resources are open to everyone. I’m not going to stop you from using them.”

Bryan eyed the doors but didn’t move

“You want to tell me what your beef is with me?”

He scowled. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

Sam shrugged. “Go nuts, kid. Let me know if you need help with any translations.”

Bryan ground his teeth and Sam tried to tamp down on his laughter as he walked away. “I’m breaking out the pavlovas,” he told Dean over his shoulder as he headed back to the kitchen. “Let me know when Cas and Rowena get here.”

It didn’t take long. The bar had only just finished singing “Happy Birthday” to Gertie over their portions of raspberry pavlova when Cas escorted Rowena past the wards and into the room. He guided her to a booth and nodded to Sam.

“Saul, cover the bar for me?” Dean called, following Sam to the table.

Sam eyed Rowena’s sweeping velvet dress and dramatic jewelry as he sat himself across the table. “Nice to see you again,” he said. “Are you . . . even more dressed up than usual?”

“One likes to look one’s best for important meetings.” She pursed her lips and glanced down at his not-entirely-clean chef’s jacket. “Though I suppose not everyone shares that philosophy.”

“I got that,” Dean said, plopping down next to Rowena. He snapped his fingers and the food stains melted away.

“Well,” Rowena said, making it clear that they hadn’t yet earned her approval. “That’s better. I suppose a tie would have been too much to ask.”

Castiel, who was sitting down next to Sam, buttoned his top button and straightened his tie.

“At least one of you knows how to make an effort. Perhaps we should discuss removing those wards . . .”

“And give you free access to my bar?” Dean said. “I don’t think so.”

She made a noise of disapproval.

“Is that what this is about?” Sam said. “Because I was going to get started on some babka for tomorrow.”

“Och, no. Have you no time for small talk? You boys certainly know how to make a girl feel unwelcome.

Sam felt a little bad. He hadn’t even offered her anything to eat. He planted a suggestion in Kim’s mind to bring them four pavlovas and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and a moment later she appeared at the table.

“Some people don’t think they should have to wait to have their orders taken,” she said as she plopped the food in front of them and flounced away.

“That’s better,” Rowena said with a smile, uncorking the bottle with a flick of her fingers. “Now. Let’s talk about this little arrangement we have going on with the afterlife.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “We’ve already gone over this. Internet porn shouldn’t keep people out of heaven. If it were that bad, Dean couldn’t have been the one to break the first seal.”

She brushed off his concern with a wave of one perfectly manicured hand. “That’s water under the bridge. I’m proposing some real reforms.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” she took a sip of her wine, “I understand you’ve been trying to make Heaven more social.”

Sam grimaced and Rowena smiled in response.

“Not going well, is it?”

He shook his head. “We thought it would be better for people to be able to see each other, but when they interact for too long . . .” He trailed off, but as she was still waiting expectantly for him to finish, he added, “Heaven stops being so heavenly.”

“People are shitty to each other,” she said knowingly.

“Yeah.”

“Especially when they know their actions don’t have consequences.”

“Yeah.”

“I propose,” Rowena said, “That you impose consequences. When people cause suffering in Heaven, you send them to me for, oh, let’s call it an attitude adjustment. Just for a few days.”

“You want me to send people to hell for being dicks?”

She smiled.

“What’s in it for us?” Dean asked.

“Besides my everlasting goodwill?”

“Besides that,” Dean said dryly.

“I’ll make all punishment temporary.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “All of it? So . . . even the ones who are rightfully yours?”

“Exactly. I’ll take them, make sure they get a punishment fitting their sins in life, and then send them on up to you.”

“How does that help you?” Sam asked. “We both need souls. You’re just giving yours away?”

“I’m trading them for fresh ones.”

“It’s easier to torture the new ones,” Dean said, narrowing his eyes at her. “After they’ve been there for a while they lose hope and start to get numb to it. But if they get breaks . . .”

“I knew you’d understand,” she said with a sweet smile. “Besides, it’s been a little sparse downstairs since you lowered the bar for the internet perverts. I’m betting I’ll have more souls at any given time with this arrangement, even if I don’t get to keep them.”

“That means Heaven is no longer the promised eternal reward,” Cas said.

Sam nodded. “True. But . . . like Rowena said, consequence-free living has a detrimental effect on people.”

“No more eternal punishment,” Dean said, his voice low and rough. “Think of how many people we care about who have been sent to hell with no hope of escape.”

Sam nodded to himself. He’d negotiated John’s release right away, but it wasn’t enough. This was his chance to get more people relief from eternal torture . . . even if maybe it wasn’t a completely permanent state.

“The punishment has to fit the crime, though,” he said. “You can’t be shoving meat hooks into people who tell little white lies to get out of awkward situations.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “Make a list of the sorts of problems you’re seeing, and we’ll get together and negotiate appropriate retribution.”

The more Sam thought of it, the better the idea sounded. He looked at Dean and Cas, trying to gauge their reactions.

Dean shrugged. Castiel looked grim.

“We’ll think it over,” he said to Rowena.

She smiled as though she had already gotten what she wanted. “Good. Now, don’t forget, this is a  _ significant _ deal we’re making.” She raised an eyebrow at Sam. “I’m sure you remember how those are sealed.”

He shifted uncomfortably, thinking of Lilith.

“Don’t look so unhappy. You can bring your boys along.” She gestured to Dean and Cas. “We’ll make a night of it.”

Dean smirked and Sam was pretty sure that Cas’s cheeks got pinker.

She gave them all a critical once-over. “Of course, you could make a little effort. Put on a suit, perhaps book us a nice room. Flowers wouldn’t kill you.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sam said. “I haven’t agreed to the deal.”

“Yet.” Rowena shooed Dean out of the way and stood. She pecked him and Cas on the cheek and then leaned in to give Sam a slow, lingering kiss. “See you soon.”

Dean sat back down and they all looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then Dean smirked.

“We never could resist making deals with demons.”


End file.
